


Cacophony

by Hakuryen



Category: Mozart l'Opéra Rock - Mozart/Baguian & Guirao
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Salieri's thoughts, not explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-18 07:34:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14208282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hakuryen/pseuds/Hakuryen
Summary: For as long as he could remember, melodies have burst through his mind, ravenous impulses acting as neurotransmitters filling his nerves to the brim, making him skittish, not able to think clearly, never able to bring his thoughts to paper -Sometimes, it felt like it was all too much.





	Cacophony

**Author's Note:**

> I kinda relapsed yesterday night and wrote this after.  
> Didn't know if I should even post this and if yes, if I should do it under my regular handle, but why not.  
> It's short, but I might expand on it or write something similar in the future, depending on how I do.  
> Stay safe guys

He didn't know when exactly it had started.

For as long as he could remember, melodies have burst through his mind, ravenous impulses acting as neurotransmitters filling his nerves to the brim, making him skittish, not able to think clearly, never able to bring his thoughts to paper -

Sometimes, it felt like it was all too much. Like he had reached his limit, the thoughts and tones growing so much they blended into one deafening white noise that made him feel empty instead.

Salieri walked a constant tightrope, with overwhelming cacophony to the left and numbing emptiness to the right. He didn't have a good sense of balance.

Sometimes, he just wished to let go for a while. To not worry about misstepping and tumbling over in one direction, hoping to not hit the ground too hard.

It might've been much better had he chosen a simple career, a simpler career, instead of that of a musician, a composer no less, where he day after day tried to sort out his thoughts, as if attempting to tame a raging river into a gurgling stream from which people could drink out of without danger.

At first, he tried to smoothen out the sharp pangs of his thought processes with the blur of alcohol.

It helped in dulling the blaring melodies to a volume which was not unlike that of hearing a concerto from outside of a building. It helped in turning his frigid body into one of life. But what he hadn't expected was that it'd work as an amplifier to his emotions – his anger grew to fury, his sadness to grief. His petty jealousy turned into a suffocating monster. He was so used to keeping himself buttoned up tight - there were certain things you should not let escape the confines of your head, and excessive emotions fell under that category – that these sudden drunken outbursts made him feel shame, disappointment in himself.

Later, he stumbled on a more dignified, honourable, and quieter way to cope. It happened by accident, really. Put into a corner by composers much greater, more inspiring, inspired, than him, he had again reached for the bottle in hopes of giving himself the courage to keep walking this balancing act, when he threw the glass to the floor in a fit of rage and it shattered. His servants by now knew that he wanted to be left alone when he was in one of these moods, so he had no one to clean up after him and instead clumsily tried to gather the wet shards in his shaking hands. He didn't even feel it happening at first. Much rather, his eyes were the first to notice it: specks of red, but _he had been drinking white wine, so why -_ then the pain came.

And suddenly, he felt sobered up. It by far wasn't the first time he felt hurt – he once was, after all, a rowdy child, fond of chasing cats and playing in the wilderness whenever his father allowed it before he had died. After, he preferred to stay inside.

But this time around, the pain didn't feel like the scruffy bite of a sore knee, or the scrabs after being a little too friendly with an unfamiliar cat. No, it was a sharp sting that seemed to concentrate all of his inner anguish in this one place, that functioned as a crack in his high walls through which all his pent-up misery, anger, nothingness, could escape.

Later, he began using a more dignified, honourable, and quieter way to cope. Instead of trying to smooth the sharp edges of his emotions in a motion that resembled that of which sand was carved in a million's worth labour, he used sharp edges to cut through the smoothness of his slippery tightrope. He let himself fall into the gap between extremes. Let himself dangle in the abrupt calm he had never before experienced. Suddenly, he had a way to quieten his head and adequately transcribe his emotions and thoughts into notes, bars, compositions.

Soon after, he began gaining popularity.

 


End file.
